Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  "But didn't Chet or Ballenger or Rourke know that? I mean, if they didn't ask you for help on Nuevo, years ago when the studies began, and last year when it was voted on, they must not have recognized how much power you have, and what you could do for them."

  "Of course they recognized it! You said it yourself: everybody does! I don't know why you'd say that when you know how well-known I am. That was why they came to me in the first place—not to make a deal, I never make deals, a man in my position doesn't make deals—but to discuss how Nuevo would help the state: jobs, tourism, flood control—and how we could get it approved without problems—"

  "Or publicity," Elizabeth slipped in quietly.

  "Publicity has harmed more worthy projects than you can shake a stick at, Elizabeth. It might have killed this one."

  "But you didn't let that happen."

  "There are ways," Bent said vaguely. Elizabeth said nothing; she watched him pace, her clear eyes direct, fascinated, unwavering. Bent found the silence excruciating. "If you know your way around, you can get research studies lumped in with other bills, nothing wrong with that, of course, just a method to keep things moving along. Otherwise people slow them up . . . slow them down . . . whatever. . . ."He cleared his throat. "So we did all that, but now I ask myself, How can Terry finance my campaign if he doesn't have money or even his own company?"

  "I don't know, Thaddeus. What do you think?"

  Bent pondered it. "Chet was absolutely positive. So he knew the money was there." His face brightened. "Rourke! If you're right, and he owns Ballenger and Associates, then Chet was speaking for him! I don't know why he couldn't just come out and say so, but it's Rourke who's going to support me! That is true! I should have seen it right away. And he is a hell of a lot bigger than Terry!"

  Elizabeth looked up curiously. "You're talking about the next election?"

  "No, no, too soon. I'm just getting started. The one five years from now. We need to line up money, delegates, endorsements . . . Chet ad-

  mired me for that: knowing how to bide my time. Pm running for Greene's seat, when he retires."

  "But Thaddeus, didn't you know?" Elizabeth hesitated. "I feel terrible. I don't know how to tell you. ..."

  Saul held his breath. How nice to have a bombshell, he thought.

  Bent's eyes were narrowed. "Tell me what?"

  "About Rourke's support," Elizabeth replied. "I'd think if he supported anyone, it would be his son."

  "His son?"

  "Tony Rourke," Elizabeth said helpfully.

  "/ know his name! But what the hell are you talking about? His son's on television; he's a big star with his own show; I don't have to tell you that; you were on it. I used to watch you."

  "But I'm not on it anymore. It isn't doing well, you see. I was told it's being canceled at the end of the season. Then I understand Tony will move to New Mexico to establish residency. . . . Good heavens!" she exclaimed abruptly. "The resort! I didn't think of that! He'll probably run it for a few years, meet all the local politicians, make a name for himself in the state . . . he's an actor; he could do it superbly."

  "Canceling?" Bent asked. "Canceling his show?"

  "That's what I heard," Elizabeth said. "Of course with television no one ever knows until the last minute, but as far as I know, it's being canceled. And Tony will be ready for a new job."

  A heavy silence fell. Saul's foot kept doing a little dance and he kept pulling it back under his chair, telling himself to be calm. Elizabeth sat quietly, head bowed, writing nonsense words on her notepad. Bent leaned against the wall, supporting his suddenly shaky body and fumbling in a pocket for the cigars he used to keep there, before his wife talked him into quitting.

  Suddenly, into the silence, his voice burst out. "Goddam son of a bitch!" He took three steps to his desk and rang the intercom for his secretary. "Get me Andrew Greene in Washington. You're wrong!" he roared to Elizabeth. "You'll see! Hear! You'll hear it for yourself!"

  He slammed his fist into his palm while he waited. "Never heard a whisper about Rourke," he said to no one in particular. "Hard as hell to keep secrets in politics; he sure knows something I don't."

  He turned to Elizabeth. "Where's that husband of yours? Working for Rourke, you said. In Houston? Without you?"

  "At the moment," Elizabeth said evenly.

  Bent shook his head. "Doesn't sound good. He the only one in the family working for Rourke? You're not?"

  "No," she replied.

  "Who are you working for?"

  "Myself, Thaddeus. You may not be interested in Artner's story, but it damaged me and I'm going to do something about it. I'm proud of the work I do and the name I've made for myself and he dragged my work and my reputation through the mud, trying to make me look like something I'm not. And I intend to get the truth out, and my name cleared."

  "What truth?" he asked, peering at her.

  "I'll tell you when I'm sure of it."

  "You're doing it for yourself? You just work for yourself?"

  "And the Chieftain. And the people of Nuevo. I'd like to see justice done."

  "There's no such— They had justice. Compensation. Help in resettlement."

  "Of course," Elizabeth said demurely, and waited.

  The intercom rang. "About time! Now you listen to this!" Bent switched on the speaker phone and paced as he talked, raising his voice to reach the speaker. "Andy? How are you? Listen, I've got—"

  "How've you been, Thaddeus?" Greene's voice, slightly metallic, echoed through the office.

  "Fine, just fine, listen, I've got—"

  "Good. It's good to talk to you. Been too long. What's new in your part of the world? Cherry blossoms are gone here; too bad you couldn't see them. . . ."

  "I've got a question! I'm talking to somebody in my office about the election, you know, when you retire, and I said, because I remember this clear as day, I said you gave me your word you'd endorse me and tell the party leadership to back me. Right?"

  No answer came from the speaker. The small black box with its black grill seemed to stare at them from a dozen blank eyes.

  "Andy? That's right, isn't it?"

  "Well, now, Thaddeus." The joviality was gone from the metallic voice. "I do recall we talked about it, last year, before the election. But surely you don't think I'd promise an endorsement this early in the game."

  "I don't think! I know! You gave me your word!"

  "Well, now, no need to argue. Everybody hears what they want to hear, you know that, Thaddeus. First lesson of politics."

  "I hear what I hear and I remember what I remember! Listen! Do you know ... do you talk to Keegan Rourke?"

  "Well, of course I do; his papers have always supported me. Even last year, old and feeble as I was"—his chuckle echoed through Bent's office

  —"Keegan helped me stay in action instead of rotting away in a home for has-beens. He's a friend; I'm indebted to him."

  "Right. Indebted. A friend." The pencil in Bent's fingers snapped and he threw the pieces at the wastebasket; they missed and bounced on the floor. "And he's got a son."

  "Indeed yes, fine young man, made a real name for himself on television. One of our finest young—"

  "He's fifty if he's a day. Andy!"

  "We're all at least fifty, Thaddeus. Tony is an excellent young man; I've known him since he was a toddler; he's outstanding at whatever he undertakes. Does his father proud."

  "And he will in politics? Is that what you're getting at?"

  "Wasn't 'getting at' anything, Thaddeus. But if young Tony ever chooses politics, he'll be a credit to any state he represents."

  "And you'll endorse him."

  "Did I say that? I told you I'm not making any commitments; it's too early—"

  "You gave me your word!* 1

  "—and I don't like being pushed. I'm a statesman, Thaddeus; statesmen aren't accustomed to being pushed or accused of going back on their word. I'm a man of honor. And right now I'm being noncommittal on who takes my seat
in this proud chamber."

  "It's not enough! Dammit to hell, being noncommittal isn't enough! You promised me: now you're backing out. Just because Keegan Rourke pushed your wheelchair back to Washington and plugged in your hearing aid and pacemaker and whatever else holds you together, you think you owe his fucking son —" A loud click came from the speaker. "Andy? Andy, goddammit!"

  Bent grabbed the speaker and flung it at the wall; its wires jerked it back and it fell to the floor and shattered. His face was beet-colored and his breathing was harsh as he kicked the plastic pieces in all directions. "Maybe the son of a bitch had a heart attack." Pacing, breathing in gasps, he looked at Elizabeth from under lowering brows. "I didn't—handle him -right."

  "He was very provoking," she said sympathetically. "What will you do now?"

  "Son of a bitch. Son—of—a—bitch. The only thing I ever wanted was to be a senator. You didn't know that—nobody does—but that's it, that's my whole life, and that fucking bastard has just—thrown it in the trash can. God, I'd like to kill him, but I can't. I'm a peaceful man. Son of a bitch! Took my life, everything I've done . . . you remember my son's wed-

  ding? And my daughter-in-law? Sweet girl, but what I liked best about that marriage was her background; she's related to all the right people in this town. Everything I've done ... all these years. . . . Jesus."

  "And now?" Elizabeth asked.

  "It's gone! That's what I'm telling you! There isn't a fucking thing I can do without Andy Greene; nobody's going to promise anything until that bastard gives somebody the nod, and we know who's going to get it, right? And it ain't me! Right? Right. So I'm out. Just like that. Years of service to my state and concern for my fellow citizens, and somebody else gets the prize."

  He paced to the window. "Christ, what I did for them!" He spun around and met Elizabeth's eyes. "Knocked myself out for them and the whole time they knew they weren't going to keep their promises. Can you believe it? How can men be so dishonorable?"

  Softly, Elizabeth said, "Did they make their promises before or after you helped them write the resettlement report on Nuevo?"

  "Before. A long time before. We'd already hired people to write the ones on irrigation and flood con—" It was as if a knife blade had sliced the word neatly in two. The beet color faded from Bent's face. "Who told you about that report?"

  "Chet."

  "Chet? He didn't. He couldn't. He was always so afraid somebody'd find out; always talking about locked file cabinets and safes. . . . The little fart! What did he tell you?"

  Elizabeth evaded the question. "He even kept the draft version, with your name on it; we have it now. And he bugs offices; have you searched yours lately? His hobby seems to be collecting information he can use on everyone."

  Bent's glance darted about the office as if he could see microphones everywhere. "That mother. ..." The words died away; his energy had run out. He looked at his hands, opening and closing them, and then at the brave gleam of his polished shoes. "You didn't come here to interview me for a story, did you?"

  "Yes, we did," Elizabeth said. "But not the kind you think. I'm sorry; I don't like trickery. But we didn't know how else to do it."

  "We." Bent looked at Saul as if for the first time, then back to Elizabeth. "You're going to tear me to pieces."

  "Thaddeus," she said quietly, "a minute ago you talked about dishonorable behavior. What would you call yours?"

  He gazed at her in silence. "It grew," he said finally.

  "It always does," Saul observed dryly. It felt good to talk, after pretending to be invisible. "Tell us about it."

  "Why should I? You'll send me to prison."

  Saul met Elizabeth's quick glance and gave a long sigh. That was the last piece of information they needed. "You wouldn't worry about prison if money weren't involved. You could claim you didn't know the reports were faked, but you can't deny payments if records were kept. From what I know of Chet, I assume he has evidence galore tucked in his files." Bent was silent, his eyes darting in all directions. "You can force us to talk to Chet, or you can tell us what you know. If you do, it might earn a reduced sentence. And you'll be helping Elizabeth clear her name; that might ease the pain." He waited once more. "You'll also be keeping Tony Rourke out of the Senate. What better reason could you want?"

  "None. You're right. You're damned right. They think they can do what they want because they're rich and powerful and people kowtow to them. . . . Shit, they're not even from New Mexico. A pretty face and a rich father ... if he thinks that's all he needs, he'll find out different. I'll see him in hell before he sits in the United States Senate. Whatever it takes." Bent strode to a corner closet and took out a bottle of bourbon. "Anybody?" Saul and Elizabeth shook their heads. He found a plastic cup, filled it, and drained it. "I'll tell you about it, but you can only print the parts about Rourke."

  "Don't be an ass," said Saul. "You can't cook him or his son without burning yourself, and you know it. You took bribes from men who work for Rourke, you faked legislative reports to push through his project . . . how the hell could we leave you out? Why should we? This is the truth we're writing, not a campaign pamphlet."

  Bent gazed at him expressionlessly. "You know, I like your newspaper. It's one of the best around. But I don't like you."

  "It's not required," Saul replied casually.

  "I like Elizabeth," Bent said. He turned his back on Saul. "I'll tell you, is that all right?"

  He was like a child, Elizabeth thought. His dreams had crumbled around him, and he had become like a child. "That's fine, Thaddeus."

  He nodded. "It seemed very simple, you know. Everybody knew Andy was going to retire, even though he hadn't announced it, and Chet came by one day, introduced himself as an associate of this rich used car dealer from San Diego, Terry Ballenger, who was building a resort at Nuevo, and said Ballenger and some other powerful men thought I should have Andy's seat. And he said Ballenger was concerned about Nuevo: wanted to make sure the proceedings went smoothly. We drove up there, Chet

  and I, and he talked about the lake and the park and the resort—a man'd be crazy not to want them for his state—and he said Terry wanted to give me one of the condos that'd be built on the lakefront. That's all there was to it"

  "And then it grew," Elizabeth said.

  Bent spread his hands. "Ballenger had already funded the impact reports. The ones on jobs and tourism showed the project was a good deal for the state; they were legitimate and everybody was happy. But then the preliminary ones on the environment came in and they were a disaster. Animal habitats gone; plant life destroyed; and the water experts said no way in hell did that area need flood control or irrigation. Chet took them back and in a few weeks the final reports came in and they said nothing serious or long-term would impact the environment, and the valley was a perfect watershed for flood control and irrigation. By that time Bal-lenger's PAC had made a couple of major contributions to my campaign fund and I thought it would be damned ungrateful if I started being suspicious about a couple of reports. Then, later, the people of the town started making noises, having meetings in the church, we heard, and then that woman, Aragon, was running for the legislature, so they quick wanted an official report on resettlement help—to convince newspaper editors the people were taken care of. And Chet asked me to write it."

  "And you did," Elizabeth said when he stopped.

  "I did after Andy Greene called and promised me the moon. And then some other donations came in from the PAC, and a pile of cash from Ballenger for what he called my discretionary fund."

  Saul had been taking notes; he slipped the pad of paper into his inside jacket and re-entered the conversation. "You'll have to tell that story a few times. And give the names of everyone else on your committee or in the rest of the legislature who got political contributions. And name Colfax and Ballenger. You won't forget the details, I suppose."

  Bent grimaced. "Shit, I'd forget the whole thing if I could, but then I think about the Senate.
. . . Goddammit, I told my whole family I'd be elected! My son already started calling me Senator Bent! Goddammit!" He glared at Saul. "I want Rourke identified. I want his plans and his picture all over the newspapers and television; I want everybody to know he's a lousy crook."

  "Father or son?" Saul asked.

  "Both of them! I'll be damned if I'll let either of them come out clean! And that pretty boy won't ever be called Senator!"

  "It's a safe bet he won't be," said Saul, standing up. "I'd guess he'll spend the rest of his life working for his daddy. But that's not your

  problem, or ours. We'll bring Rourke into it; you'll bring in Colfax and Ballenger and your committee. And yourself. That'll clean out a lot of dingy corners and sweep Tony away with the rest of the dirt." He turned to Elizabeth. "Anything else?"

  She was replacing her notebook and pen in her briefcase. She held out her hand. "Goodbye, Thaddeus."

  He took her hand. "I guess I should have been interested in that story on you. Chet shouldn't have done that."

  "None of you should have done what you did." Withdrawing her hand, she walked to the door where Saul waited. "Will you be in town this week? We may have questions, to check our facts."

  "I'll be here. Where would I go?"

  They left him standing alone in his office. "I'm going to the office and call Matt," Saul said to Elizabeth. "I promised I'd call in, like the good reporter I am. Why don't you come along? The three of us can have an editorial conference on the phone."

  "No thank you, Saul. You'll make a very thorough report without me. But let me know what he's planning; he got on the story first and I won't write anything until I know what he's going to do."

  Saul opened his car door for her. "I'll tell him you said that; we don't see much courtesy among journalists these days." He got in on his side and started the car, then, before pulling away from the curb, he leaned over and kissed her. "You were terrific in there, Elizabeth. You got everything you wanted. May it always be so."

  Keegan Rourke had tried to get the governor to be more specific, but all he would say was that he wanted Rourke to meet him as soon as possible, in absolute secrecy. And so, because Mitchell Laidlaw, governor of New Mexico, was not a man Rourke could ignore, he found himself two days later sitting in the luxurious interior of a small jet parked at the side of the tarmac in the Las Cruces airport. Chet was on his left ("Bring that clever assistant of yours," the governor had said), and, on a couch across the aisle, Mitch Laidlaw and Andrew Greene, who had flown in together from Santa Fe.